


Quite A Bit More

by prettylittlepetticoats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jon Snow, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Endgame Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Filthy, Fluff and Smut, Fucking, Gratuitous Smut, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow is King-Beyond-the-Wall, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark Smut, King Jon Snow, Like I blushed writing it, Loss of Virginity, POV Sansa Stark, Rough Sex, Sansa Stark-centric, Sansa slightly OOC, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Suspend some reality, This is legit the filthiest thing I've ever written omg, Wildling Jon Snow, enjoy the smut, like pure filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylittlepetticoats/pseuds/prettylittlepetticoats
Summary: “They think I should take you as my wife” He nods, “Claim a Stark bride, march my way South, kill the fucking southerners as I go and set myself up here in Winterfell, in the warm with a pretty red head on my lap!”They talk of the King of the wildlings, the King Beyond the Wall, they say he runs with a giant wolf, they say he fights with a bastard blade and cuts down any who cross his path. He is a fierce commander, beloved leader, and as she faces him she feels a warmth in her belly, a pounding in her chest and heat on her thighs. He is everything they said and more, and he is here to claim Sansa Stark. /ONESHOT, Jonsa, Smut
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 332
Collections: Where The Wild Things Are





	Quite A Bit More

**Author's Note:**

> okay disclaimer this is legit the filthiest thing I've ever written, I was blushing as I wrote it. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this! I wanted to try my hand at some jonsa smut and here we are! I loved this idea, and I love how it turned out, even if I now feel like I need jesus. 
> 
> please enjoy, lemme know if you did, and lemme know if you'd like to see more jonsa smut from me!
> 
> songrecs: toxic - 2WEI

It is just a week after her 16th nameday when she hears the bells toll, hears the loud sound of the horn and the slam of the Castle gates shutting. _‘Winterfell is a fortress’_ they tell her, _‘Never taken’_ they promise, and yet as she see’s the approaching host, as her father, her brothers and the men take a stand, she knows … Winterfell _will_ fall.

She is hidden away in the sewing rooms, her sister Arya by her side, quiet for once, her mother standing vigil at the window with their Septa, trying to see what is going on, but not able to glean much if the tension in their expressions is anything to go by. All the ladies of Winterfell hide here, as the men fight, fight those who would come to ruin them.

It is the wildlings, having taken the Wall weeks ago they all knew this was coming, a massive host of 100,000, smashing Castle Black, and then each Northern keep along the way, taking wives, and hostages as they went, torturing soldiers and boiling their bones. Some run with giants, bears, _wolves_.

She is a wolf, a Stark, and yet she is terrified, they say the wildlings seek to ruin the families of those who shut them in the cold, seek to take over Westeros and run it free. It is a terrifying notion, and yet they seem unstoppable.

There wasn’t time to call the banners, and so the North will fall, and then the South, so ruined by infighting, politics, and greed, they will find easy victories their too. They have the numbers; they have giants covered in armour for goodness sake! They have wargs that control birds in the sky to scout and giant bears that rip cavalry to pieces. She heard a story that at the battle of the Last Hearth the wargs took over the soldiers’ horses and had the steeds throw the men from the saddles.

They are _relentless_ , and now they come to Winterfell, to take her home, and by the way her mother looks, and the utter silence that has fallen over the keep … she knows they will succeed.

Many stories had been told of their actions so far and each is as chilling as the last.

The rumours say they carry harsh cut blades, that they wear grey furs and don’t fear the cold, that they have little structure, except a King at their head. They sit in clans, speak different tongues, have different customs and yet are united in one goal. To make the southerners pay.

She had always hoped to go South, to be a _‘southerner’_ , it seems these wildlings already think she is one. Apparently, they believe they are the only northerners, from the true North, Beyond the Wall, and they seek vengeance and those who put them there.

The rumours speak of their fighting prowess, of how they torture their enemies, scrape off their fingernails, make them scream and beg for death. The stories tell of how they burn their dead, carry great bows that fire arrows miles away, and fight with a ferociousness that is simply not seen South of the Wall.

“It will be alright” Jeyne speaks, but she looks nervous, the wildlings don’t ‘rape’ per say, but they do claim their wives in such a way, stories say that a wildling man claims a woman as his wife by forcing her, but the wife is expected to fight back, and the man must prove his valour by not stopping and _‘winning’_. It sounds scary, and all the girls know that fate may await them if the wildlings win.

Sansa doesn’t want that, she doesn’t want to fight her husband, she wants a song, a handsome Prince or courtly Knight to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. At 16 she knows such dreams are a little foolish now, but in her heart, she still wishes it.

“It will” Sansa affirms, and the girls seem a little reassured, she is after all the daughter of the Lord of the Castje, if she offers words of reassurance the girls feel better.

Her mother is tense though, Sansa can see it clear as day.

“Our fathers, brothers and husbands will save us” Sansa speaks up, her sweet voice carrying across the large room, and again the girls seem bolstered, her mother proud but sad, “They will I know it”

Perhaps they will, she thinks to herself. In the songs the honourable and true always defeat the invaders, perhaps the songs will shine true today. “Shall we sing?” She asks, and the girls nod, and her mother gives a nod of approval as well with a smile, to see her daughter offering comfort.

_‘The maiden sitting by her pool,_

_Was first to hear my pleas,_

_As she looked into the water_

_She recited these words to me’_

They never got to sing the words recited, not as a thud hit the wall, the Septa and her mother shared a meaningful look and turned to them. Sansa felt her heart jump in her throat, and she grabbed Arya, her sister whom she so often fought with she reached for and Arya reached back.

“Girls get back” Her mother ordered, and she shot Sansa a look, one she didn’t quite understand. Sansa held onto Arya’s hand, and then another thud, a scream, and the girls around her began to sob, worry, panic. They all hurried back to the wall, to hide into it, as her mother picked up a knife, the Septa stood firm in front of the door, and the older married women took their place in front of the younger girls.

“It will be alright” Sansa mumbled, almost to herself, but as another scream went up in the air, and she heard the furious snarls of animals, and the call of surrender, she knew.

Winterfell was lost.

* * *

Minutes passed, and they all stood, waiting, Sansa holding Arya’s hand so hard it must hurt but her sister doesn’t complain, just squeezes back, as they wait, in silence. They heard the surrender call, but none move.

She is worried, for her father, Robb, even Theon. She worries for Jory, Rodrick, the servants, all of the men fighting bravely. They may fight brave but the Wildlings fight like animals, she is scared, she hopes they are okay.

This isn’t how the songs go, this isn’t what the singers proclaim. In the songs the honourable always win, but here it is the violent, the ruthless that will sing of victory. _‘Life is not a song sweetling’_ perhaps it is not.

Another thud, another scream, and then the door swings open.

Her mother charges forward, but she is quickly grabbed by a giant man with red hair, who laughs and throws her to another man, only ordering her to be taken to the hall, where her mother goes kicking and fighting. The Septa is shoved aside, and then the giant man and his cronies are scanning the room, looking, searching for something … _or_ _someone_.

Sansa keeps her eyes down, and shoves her sister behind her, the women seem to shrink in on themselves, to not be noticed for whatever this man wants. They all look at the floor, all trembling. Sansa tries to be brave, but she is afraid, she only manages not to shake to reassure Arya, though her sister has always been the braver of the two.

What are they looking for? A wife to claim? Sansa knows she has been blessed with pretty looks, at 16 she is often told she is one of the prettiest in the Kingdoms. When told that she usually blushes and preens a little, now she wishes she weren’t, now she wishes she were disfigured or ugly, and then the men would leave her alone.

Seconds of silence go by, as the giant man scans the crowd of them and then he nods, and she doesn’t have to look up to see who he points at.

“There, the one kissed by fire” He grunts, “Grab her” The women try and form around her but they are pushed aside in seconds. Sansa shakes now, she can’t help it, but she keeps Arya behind her, until her sister, always the bravest, steps forward.

“No! You can’t have her” She screams and punches the first wildling man who approaches. The red headed giant just laughs, as do his men, this is a joke to them, a game. The wildling women reportedly fight in the army, but they know the women here don’t, they are no threat.

“Bring her too!” He laughs again and one man grabs Arya, she kicks and screams but it’s not enough.

“Arya no!” Sansa screams, her turn to be brave and she runs forward, but another man grabs her around the waist first, before she can reach her sister. “Arya!” She screams, the wildling men don’t seem to care, the red headed one still laughs as he turns out of the room and orders them to the hall.

“Sansa!” Arya screams.

“Arya!” Sansa yells.

But they aren’t payed any mind as they are dragged to the main hall. Once outside they stop for just a second.

“Put the youngest with the other hostages” The red head man orders, “And bring the red head to the King”

Her blood chills, she shakes more then, and the sound seems to leave the room. She feels as though she’s underwater, she can’t hear a word, can’t see much either, as black spots go over her vision. She vaguely hears Arya scream as the doors open, as her sister is pulled away, she hears her mother’s scream she’s sure, but nothing else. She sways on the spot as she’s dragged inside.

She knows what will happen to her now. The other girls will be taken as wives, to wildling men who will force them. It has already happened across the North. In Karhold rumour had the Thens chief stole Alys Karstark. In Iron Wrath the leader of the Hornfoots took Mira Forrester. In Highpoint Gwyn Whitehill was taken by the chief of the Nightrunners. At each Keep a leader takes a noble girl for their own.

They are at Winterfell now, at the highest standing Lordship in the North, the Capitol of their Kingdom, the seat of House Stark. As each tribe leader took a noble girl at the other keep, here she is the noble girl, and she knows it won’t be a chief who takes her …

It will be a King.

As she heard stories about many things the wildlings have done and do, she also heard rumours about their mysterious King.

The wildlings don’t usually follow any structure, and yet they rallied around a King who could take them south. Rumour has it he was once with the Nights Watch, but at 14 took his most faithful brothers and went further North and turned his back on his vows. The wildlings crowned him when he reunited them, promised them a way past the Wall, and adapted to their bloodshed so easily they love him.

The stories say the wildlings adore him, that he fights at the head of their army, with the bastard Valyrian Sword Longclaw (stolen from Castle Black) at his hip. Rumour has it he has a great direwolf he wargs into that fights with him, and a crow he sends out to scout. He apparently fights the best out of all them, a legendary swordsman who had personally cut down many a fierce northern fighter.

They say he is a mystery; few know much about him outside his martial prowess. He sounds terrifying, and Sansa sways on the spot as they push her forward. Again black spots invade her vision, and as she is shoved in front of the high table she only gets a blurred view at said King, dressed like his men, her family bound and kneeling at the side of the high table, the great sword Ice across his lap.

She sees little of his face, but can only remark how northern it is, how … Stark like, but that is all, before her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she falls. 

* * *

She awakes just a few minutes later, to the giant red man shaking her awake and tugging her to her feet.

“I don’t think she likes you Snow!” He laughs, and so do his men. Sansa tenses, they speak to their King this way? The King that is rumoured to be part wolf and once cut down three of his own men for disobeying him? They dare challenge such a tyrant?

She looks at him then, properly for the first time to gauge his reaction, and she gasps as their eyes meet.

He looks like a Stark, grey eyes, black curly hair. He is handsome, _very handsome_. He isn’t overly tall, perhaps an inch above her, but he is strong, in strapping shoulders and strong arms. He laughs at the jest his men made, and it lights up his face. She is shocked at how young he is, probably only a few namedays ahead of her, 3 or 4 at most. He has a sense of adventure about him, an intensity.

He is _not_ what she expected.

She had expected some great brute. He is handsome, and she can see the strength in him, that has him lead, that shows his bravery and the ruthlessness that comes with being the head of invaders, but his smile is like sunshine, those dark grey eyes light up with his laugh, but then smoulder with fire as his gaze meets hers. She can see he’d be capable of brooding, those eyes darkening as he considered something, but here he is all wolfish grin and fire.

“So, you’re Sansa Stark, the noble girl kissed by fire” He says and his men cheer. She blushes, a deep red, all down her neck and to the collar of her gown, and he eyes said blush appreciatively. As he eyes her like that, she feels a warmth in her belly, and by his smirk he knows that warmth is there.

“Do you know what my men think I should do with you Lady Stark?” Her blush pales at his tone then, at his words, her creamy skin turning milk white, and he grins at her, like a wolf, his eyes flashing, and she gulps down some fear. He is handsome yes, but _dangerous_ , that she can see clear as day, it is wise to be worried.

She shakes her head _no_ , and he grins that dangerous grin. It terrifies her, and makes her knees feel a little weak … she doesn’t question why, it is his gaze that does it, his handsome smirk and the fire in him, that’s what makes her feel weak. 

“They think I should take you as my wife” He nods, “Claim a Stark bride, march my way South, kill the fucking southerners as I go and set myself up here in Winterfell, in the warm with a pretty red head on my lap!” His men cheer then, and she flinches, he still grins, his gaze is still full of fire and she feels torn somewhere between complete fear and something else she can’t identify.

“I’m inclined to agree” There’s the wolfish grin again, and she flinches once more. She knew it would come to this, and no matter how handsome he is this is not what she wished for. She wished for a southern Knight with painted armour or a handsome Prince, not a wildling King intent on taking her whether she likes it or not.

This isn’t what she wants but she might not have much of a choice. For a moment she thinks this is like a song … just not one of the nice ones she likes.

“Would you like that Sansa?” He asks, gets up, places Ice on the head table and walks around. She glances at her family then, all bound and gagged, and her mother looks terrified, Robb is bloody and almost falling over, her father fights the bounds but can’t get free, Arya has tears on her cheeks, Theon looks at her with pity, Bran and Rickon who had been hidden in the nursery are there bound with Maester Luwin who’s eyes are filled with sorrow. They know what will come, just as she does.

But will she just accept it? She has never been very brave, and yet …

_‘I am a Stark; I can be brave’_

And so, when he comes to a stop in front of her, that wolfish grin on his lips, eyeing her up and down, she glares at him which makes his grin even wider. “Would you like it?” He asks.

“No” She whispers, and he leans into her, making her shiver as his breath ghosts her skin.

“What was that?” He is teasing now, taunting her, and that gets her blood up. She hates being mocked, more than anything else, and so she speaks louder.

“No, I wouldn’t” His men laugh again, and he cocks his head. As he looks at her then she feels like prey, and he is an apex predator. She shivers and he looks triumphant. There is something in his eyes though, something deep that speaks to more than just wanting her, she’s not sure what it is, but she feels as though it cuts into her soul.

It is peculiar but it elicits something deep in her, that penetrating gaze, that wolfish grin. It makes her heart thrum, her cheeks pinken, her hands shake. She is scared yes, but there is something else … something stronger.

She isn’t sure what she is feeling, nor what he will do, and she feels nervous, scared, unsure. He makes it a little easier when he orders everyone out.

“Take the family to a room, guard them” He orders, “And then leave me and Sansa be” He nods at his men and they nod back and take out his orders. Huh, so they challenge him but follow his command … she kind of likes that, perhaps he’s not a tyrant.

When they are alone his grin doesn’t slip and if anything, he takes a step closer. The warmth in her belly deepens and yet so does her fear. The reactions he pulls from her are like nothing else. She is terrified and shakes, and yet she feels something deep in her chest that pulls her to him. He is all fire and flame come alive, smirking and grinning, a leader of his men. There is something in his gaze, something strong, sure and … so alive that it makes her want to feel that. To feel as alive as he does.

They are alone then, and he takes another step forward, to leave her no space of her own … it is wrong that she likes it, that she shivers in fear and yet leans in … what is happening to her?

“They said you were pretty” He remarks and then he walks around her, as her heart thuds in her ears, faster and faster and her blush deepens as he looks her up and down before coming to a stop behind her. He whispers now, that the great hall is empty, and quiet. “They were wrong, you are something else, something beyond beautiful”

Of course, her blush grows worse, the deep red streaking over her cheeks, down her neck and chest, that she can’t stop. He walks around her again, brushes a thumb over said skin and smiles at her … _smiles_ , not smirks and she feels her lips tug up involuntarily. Is the King something beyond the wicked wolf he portrays?

“Oh, I am wicked” He grins again, as though he read her mind, “But I’m not one to force a woman” He admits with a shrug, moving away from her then. Sansa feels a little ashamed at how she wants to call him back, “The freefolk call me King but I was born this side of the Wall, stealing a woman was never something for me”

“Why not?” Why on earth did she ask that? His grin makes her want to run then, to run … what was he doing to her? Eliciting questions like that? Her blush deepens (which she hadn’t thought possible, she must be tomato coloured by now), and he is smirking again as he backs up and rests against the high table, arms crossed, eyeing her … in a way that makes the warmth deeper.

“I like a woman to want me” He shrugs again, that wicked grin still painted over his handsome face, “Do you want me Sansa?”

If she could go any redder, she would. He knows, he knows that as much as she should hate him, should recoil and tremble in fear that part of her is intrigued, part of her is thrumming with something she can’t quite understand. That a large part of her still wants to run, but another part wants to see what this is, understand this feeling she has _never_ encountered. It is wrong, that she knows, but … it is _too_ tempting to turn away from.

“I…” She does stumble, she is a maiden still, no vixen. She’s had two kisses in her life, a peck from Clay Cerywn when they were 13, he was visiting Winterfell and the peck made her squeal and sing for two weeks before she realised Clay Cerywn was handsome but rather dull. The second had been just last year, with Domeric Bolton. He had kissed her when he had come to visit and she had near swooned before he had hurried away apologising, putting dead anything there. She is inexperienced, and not the type to talk freely about such things.

In fact, this is hugely inappropriate! Not ladylike at all! But then the wildlings hardly care for social etiquette. She doesn’t like that; she has always prided herself on being a Lady … though the fire in her belly makes her not want to act like one. For the first time in her life she is not so concerned with being the perfect Lady, it is terrifying, but oddly freeing.

“Come here Sansa” She notices his voice properly then, how deep it is, with that northern hilt. It is rough, not like the southern men with perfect accents. His voice is gruff and yet she likes it, it makes her tremble, but not with fear.

She isn’t sure why, but the warmth in her forces her forward, and she walks to him, to this King, who’s name she doesn’t even know.

“What is your name?” She asks when she reaches him, just a step or two away.

“Jon” He replies, that’s a northern name, and she nods, and takes a final step, within reaching distance of him, and she is sure her face is aflame.

A big part of her appreciates that he made her come to him, let her make the choice. She had believed upon the wildling men dragging her to the hall that this King would take her whether she liked it or not. Instead she found a handsome man, almost her age who wants her to want him. Why is that so appealing to her? Why does that make her want him? She doesn’t know, she doesn’t understand, she just knows she likes it.

“Do you want me Sansa?” He asks again. She can’t say it … but she nods, and that’s enough for him.

He tugs her forward, and Sansa realises the pecks she had before were _not_ kisses, not when compared to this. _Nothing_ can compare to this.

He is not gentle, not a bit. Instead he pulls her to him by the waist, one hand there another in her hair, _‘kissed by fire’_ as his men said. He kisses her hard, his lips firm against hers, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth. He bites her bottom lip gently, then sucks it to soothe the nip. She whines into his mouth, whimpers as he pulls her closer, she feels like she wants to be as close as two people can be.

What is he doing to her?

She is never like this! Wanton! She is a Lady, as her mother put so much pride in … but all of that falls apart here, with Jon, the King of the wildlings, who ignites something in here she has never felt before, stokes a fire in her she has never felt before … and yet feels so good, it feels so … _alive_.

She kisses him back, tentatively at first, but she soon finds the rhythm. Her hands find his hair and she tugs at the curls and that makes him groan. That is a sound she likes and wants to hear him make again, and again.

He kisses her hard, and then spins them so her back is to the table, he lifts her onto the wood, and she gasps as he does so, as he rucks the skirts of her dress up and forces her thighs apart.

“What?” She asks, shaking her head, the desire of earlier forgotten for a second or two. “I...” She stumbles, this is all new to her and as scary as it is exciting.

“Shh” He reassures, “Not yet, you’re not ready for that yet”

That does reassure her, but confuses her a little, what does he intend to do then? She likes kissing him, that she can’t deny, but she’s not sure she wants anything else. What else is there except consummating now? What does he mean?

He soon shows her.

His fingers first toy at her neck, and then down, and he tugs at the shoulders of her dress. She squeaks with nerves, but he looks at her with that smoulder in his eyes, with reassurance too, and a desire she recognises now. That look alone melts her resistance and she nods, as he tears at the dress shoulders, pulls them down to pool at her waist, leaving her top bare to him.

She should complain he was ruined her pretty dress, and her instinct is to cover herself, but as he looks upon her, with such desire she feels like she might collapse, she can’t complain, she doesn’t want to hide. She bites down on her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, as he looks at her, appreciates her … she feels like the most desirable creature in all the realms, and that only increases as he touches her.

He strokes down her neck, over her chest, between the dip of her breasts before he reaches for her. He strokes and grabs, before he goes for her nipples. She realises she is panting, her face hot, her legs now behind his, keeping him close to her. She should be embarrassed at how wanton she is being, but he doesn’t make her feel embarrassed, he makes her feel amazing.

A little whine leaves her lips as he dips his head and takes one of her nipples in his mouth. A gasp of shock leaves her when he toys with the other, pinching it, before switching his mouth to it and then pinching and tugging the other. She is more than panting now, moaning and squirming. She has never felt this kind of pleasure before, it feels _wonderous_.

“Good girl” He croons in that gruff voice and she whimpers in response. Not only do his hands and mouth make her whine, but so does his voice.

She feels a wetness between her legs, a warmth, and a deep heat she has never felt before. It makes her squirm as she tilts her head back, as Jon kisses her breasts, kisses her neck, bites it a little, plays with her nipples, and makes her feel as though she might explode.

She had never known such pleasure to be possible, and it is dwarfed as he reaches down further.

“May I?” The fact he asks makes her want to kiss him, and tentatively she does, a peck to his lips and he laughs but not unkindly. “I’ll take that as a yes” She smiles a little, and he reaches for her dress, lifting her off the table to tug it free before placing her back down. She is left in nothing but her small clothes which he too makes quick work of … and then she is bare before him.

She should feel embarrassment, she remembers when Theon had accidently walked in on her changing and she had screamed and been mortified for weeks after, but with Jon? He makes her feel at ease, he makes her feel so desired she doesn’t dare cover herself.

“You are a goddess” He speaks, his voice rough … how could she cover herself when he sees her and says that?

She has always been told she’s pretty, beautiful even but Jon goes beyond that, he makes her feel _magnificent_.

His fingers stroke her inner thigh and she gasps, she can see he is grinning again, though he seems a little flushed too. He strokes over the skin at her thigh and then dips in-between her thighs, running his fingers over her. She squeals as he does so, and he captures her lips in another fierce kiss, and she is sure she will lose her mind.

He kisses her hard as he strokes her, over the little nub at her womanhood. He then inserts one and then two fingers, and by then she is panting, squirming, writhing, as he begins to push them in and out, in and out.

“So wet, good girl” He speaks, and she whines and nods her head, she likes that, that she’s a good girl for him, god she feels like she is on fire.

It feels amazing.

“Yes” She whines, as she feels something build … and build, a deep pleasure coming from within her that threatens to break. He inserts a third finger, in and out, fucking her, as she’d heard some of the soldiers talk about. His thumb strokes over her little nub, playing with it, stroking it, even pinching it, and then … and then…

She sees stars.

She screams as she comes, and shakes as he rides her through it, stroking her nub, gently removing his fingers, kissing along her neck, running his hands up her stomach, skirting back over her chest, dancing over her nipples, making them wet with her own juices. It feels wanton, and yet she finds herself desperate for more, she only doesn’t beg because she can’t speak with such a pleasure running through her.

Minutes earlier she’d been terrified, so scared of this King, and yet now? Now she wants them to be as close as two people can be, she wants him to merge her fire with her, to make her feel as good as she does now, she wants _more_.

She doesn’t care that it’s wanton or unladylike, she is simply on fire for Jon.

She tugs him forward, brave for once … he makes her feel brave, and that she likes most of all. She kisses him, and she nips at his lip, he groans, and she feels powerful at that. She mewls into his mouth, and he breaks the kiss, she whines as he steps back, but he shakes his head.

“You may be soaked for me, but you’ll need a little more” Pointing out her desire makes her moan, and when he drops to his knees her eyes widen, just what does he mean to do?

As he leans forward, she realises, and she feels like if she died in that moment, she’d go to the seven heavens squealing in pleasure.

He puts his mouth on her, and gods it feels good. His tongue flicks over her nub, even nips at it, which makes her squeal and he laughs into her curls before he goes lower, and licks and licks and licks. She is panting again soon enough, squirming harder than before.

He pulls her legs to his shoulders, holds her firm at her thighs as he continues to devour her, feast on her like a man desperate. He licks and kisses and nips and she moans louder and louder. Her hands go to his curls, the curls she already loves the feel of, and she twists her hands into his hair, holding him close.

“Oh god Jon!” She shouts, and he hums into her, licking and licking over and over. He adds a finger inside of her, and then another but doesn’t cease devouring her, and she comes again, when she didn’t think it were possible to feel a greater pleasure she does.

She screams, “Jon!” She can tell he likes her screaming his name, as he growls and thrusts his fingers harder, she almost sobs as he curls them as the waves of pleasure wash over her. He keeps licking her through her release, lapping up her juices, and she should be embarrassed at how wet she is, but she can’t find it in her, Jon feels too good.

He stands then and when he kisses her again, she can taste herself on him. She tastes sweet, and they both moan as he flicks his tongue into her mouth and she in another moment of boldness flicks hers too. He detaches himself to kiss down her neck again, even bites there which she knows will bruise. She realises how far gone she is when the idea pleases her, that the King will mark her.

“Tell me what you want Sansa” He growls into her neck, before pulling back to look at her, and his gaze threatens to burn her. She can see he wants her, can feel his hardness against her thigh, and in a moment of bravery she didn’t know she was capable of she leans forward to touch it. It is his turn to gasp then, and she nods her head.

“ _You_ ”

That is all he needs, and he’s pulling off his tunic, tugging down his breaches and pulling her closer.

This was not how she imagined her first time, on the table in the main hall, legs wrapped around the King Beyond the Wall’s waist, wet with desire, panting and begging for more, him growling into her neck, whilst stroking over her nipples, having just licked over her sex. She did not imagine to be taken like this, and yet as he lines himself up, rubs her little nub again and waits for her nod she realises …

She wouldn’t want it any other way.

She gives her nod of assent, and for a moment their gazes lock. His dark grey to her blue, and she feels a shiver up her spine. There it is again; she feels as though he looks into her soul. She likes it, wants him as close as two can be, and she clutches him closer and nods her head again.

It does hurt a little as he slides in, but his groan of pleasure helps wash the pain away. She grunts in pain and he stills, as she tries to adjust. He is big, too big even, and yet she only needs to look at him to know she wants him to continue, that she wants more, that she wants Jon completely.

She is thankful he took the time to bring her to pleasure before, her wetness makes it much easier, it’s not so painful, not as she had heard other ladies mutter.

“Are you alright?” Who knew the King could be so gentle? She thinks she could love him for that.

“Yes” And then he continues, it hurts at first, but soon the waves of pain turn first to something interesting, and then to pleasure. She is panting again, moaning as he holds her close, both as naked as the day they were born. She grips her arms around his neck, her head buried in his chest, he holds her hard at the waist, as he thrusts, as he fucks her, his face buried in her neck, nipping at her skin, groaning into her, as she whines and whimpers.

“Oh gods Jon” She whimpers and he follows with a groan, tilting his hips to thrust harder, and she feels it again, the crescendo building to something, something deep, she isn’t sure she can take it again, but Jon gives her no choice as he thrusts over and over, harder and deeper, and she’s gone _again_.

“Oh…oh…oh!” She screams, “Jon I…I”

“Come for me Sansa” His dirty words encourage her so, tip her over the edge, “Good girl” There it is again, that praise she didn’t know she could crave so, and she falls over the edge again, screaming, stars in her eyes. He rubs her nub throughout, and she shakes with pleasure, clutches him harder, and she feels him go taunt, and she feels a special kind of triumph that he fell over the edge too.

“Fuck…Sansa” He groans, “Fuck, so good, fuck” She feels him spill his seed inside of her, it is warm and wet, and yet it feels right, for him to fill her so, and she places gentle kisses to his chest as he does, thrusts one last time and then pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her with a groan.

For a moment, just a moment they are silence, he breaths deeply and she knows she is flushed and panting too. They need a minute. She feels she should be embarrassed at her wanton actions, but she just feels content.

“You know” He speaks into her neck, and she can feel his grin on her skin, “In freefolk custom you’re mine now, we’re married”

He pulls back to look at her and she gives him a shy smile. He’s still inside her and yet she feels all shy all of a sudden, and her cheeks go pink.

“You like that?” His rough voice makes her bite her lip and she can’t deny him as she nods.

“But…” She pauses and he waits, he seems to be patient with her, that she likes. There is much more to the King than she had expected … she finds she wants to learn more. “What about the Godswood?”

“I’ll marry you anywhere you like” He grins, and she resists the urge to squeal, “As long as you’re mine”

She knows its crazy, they just met! And yet it’s the fire in his gaze, the honesty, the way he can look at her and see her true, and the undeniable, earth shattering pleasure he just drew from her. She can’t resist him, doesn’t want to … she doesn’t want to be parted with him, she wants to unwrap the mystery of this King, and she feels she’ll enjoy every minute.

“Yours” She tests it on her tongue and the grin that cuts across her features shows she likes it.

“Aye” He is grinning too, and pulls her in for a kiss, one that burns her and soothes her all at once. She doesn’t know him, but she knows this is right, this feels right, and she has never felt anything as wonderful as being in Jon’s arms, feeling Jon’s kiss, and knowing someday soon Jon will love her.

“Yours” She says it again this time more sure, and she kisses him again, and again, and they are both grinning.

Everything else will be sorted later, and she will want to marry in the Godswood, perhaps in the Sept too, but for now? For now, she feels Jon stir inside her again, and though she is sore she can’t refuse feeling that close to him again, feeling as though their souls are one…part of her thinks perhaps they are. She knows she will love him soon, and the look in his eyes speaks that he will love her too.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> soo thoughts? 
> 
> hope you guys enjoyed, I need to go and cool down from my red face. 
> 
> if you guys like jonsa, I do have a WIP (shameless plug here), called 'turning back' feel free to check it out!
> 
> pls lemme know if you liked this and if you want to see more jonsa smut from me!


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